Film Reviews by Steve

After Mickey Rooney found stardom as an MGM child actor in the 1930s, he struggled for a second act. He was still cast as small town American teenager Andy Hardy into middle age. His most interesting venture is a pair of ‘50s noirs in which he played honest mechanics duped by glamorous femme fatales.

The other is Quicksand (1950), but this is better, a slender heist film in which the diminutive grease monkey is tempted to be the wheels on a bank job by a gangster’s sexy, sweet talking moll (Dianne Foster). She’s way out of his league, which is often emphasised by how much taller she is.

The preparation for the robbery is paramount, with the driver motivated more by loneliness than greed. The actual getaway is brief though effective. But nice guy Eddie has a huge scar from an old head injury which alerts us to the possibility that he might prove a little less predictable than he seems.

It’s a routine crime melodrama, but the best performance of Rooney’s career. It’s startling how the ex-juvenile star is demeaned in the dialogue, for being short and a sexual loser. Foster is fine too and looks so potent in her swimsuit that it’s understandable she got even Andy Hardy to go bad.

This ostentatiously imitates Double Indemnity at every twist, though that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It’s wise to steal from the best. It even stars Fred MacMurray, though ten years have passed and he’s now too old for the role as the wage slave tempted by sex and greed.

And naturally Kim Novak, in her debut credit, is no match for Barbara Stanwyck as the femme fatale. Or as cold hearted. Still, she’s a sexy, blonde knockout as the moll of a murderer who has knocked over a bank. MacMurray is the cop on a stakeout at her swanky apartment.

So we get a touch of Hitchcock, with the cool blonde and the voyeurism. And there's some decent hardboiled dialogue. Which is plenty for a viable, if derivative thriller. But the leads are merely adequate and Richard Quine is a lesser director who doesn’t create much suspense.

Eventually, like Philip Carey as Fred’s surveillance buddy, it’s easy to get distracted by Dorothy Malone as the vivacious nurse who lives next door. She has charisma to burn. In ’54 this must have looked awfully old fashioned. But now, the reliable noir motifs will engage genre fans.

The creature is usually regarded as the last of the great Universal monsters. The gill man became an icon for horror fans but never quite passed into the mainstream like Dracula or the Frankenstein creation. Still, this was a significant studio production with the underwater photography and its initial release in 3D.

There's the same story as King Kong (1933), though it keeps the part where the captive beast is shipped to America for the sequel. A scientific expedition to the Amazon uncovers a mysterious fossil, and then its descendant, a living creature which is half human, and half fish. Of course, it’s a man in a rubber suit, but still effective.

We get the kind of boffins who are best when seen in their swimwear. Richard Carlson and Richard Denning have a fistfight over the ethics of their mission. Julie Adams cavorts extensively in a water ballet while the gill man (understandably) watches approvingly. There’s the standard beauty and the beast theme.

It tries to exist in the creation myth of the bible and also the science of natural selection, which doesn't really compute, but at least work has gone into making the hokum halfway conceivable. There’s even some minor ecological subtext. All the classic motifs of the creature feature are delivered intact; but the clichés are still fun.

Critically adored psychological action thriller about four desperate men in central America who drive nitro-glycerine over 300 miles of rocky mountain terrain in death traps for a US oil company. Sure the truckers are motivated by greed, but even more by reckless despair. This is a place people arrive when they have run out of choices.

The first hour is slow and creates a palpable impression of the hopelessness that brought them to this hot, squalid dead end, gorgeously photographed in noirish b&w. But once the fuse is lit and the drivers are in motion with their unstable, incendiary cargo, the tension is extraordinary.

There is an anti-capitalist subtext which meant it was edited for US release. The company’s explicit faith in social Darwinism is a clear link to fascism. The depiction of the corporate exploitation of indigenous people and the natural environment is ahead of its time.

But it is usually described as an existential thriller. The four (Yves Montand, Charles Vanel, Peter van Eyck, Folco Lulli) exist within an instant of their death. They each process fear in individual ways. There are epic and allegorical dimensions. Yet it’s mainly an incredibly suspenseful, nerve shredding experience.

Hollywood salute to the 9th Australian Division which resisted Erwin Rommel's Afrika Korps at Tobruk for 231 days. Maybe it offends the Aussies by giving them a British leader (Richard Burton). And the Brits by overlooking their contribution entirely. It doesn't take much from the actual events, but it's a sincere tribute.

And Robert Wise creates a fairly realistic picture of the war in North Africa in 1941, which effectively blends in newsreel footage. There is an impression of the immense bravery and sacrifices of the veterans. Though it examines the burden of leadership in more detail than the miseries of the men burrowed into the sand.

James Mason reprises his role as Rommel from The Desert Fox (1951). Burton is fine as an inexperienced officer, who is demanding yet sensitive. But it's far more interesting to see the Australian support cast, including Chips Rafferty and Charles Tingwell as the boisterous but determined and loyal recruits.

We hear Waltzing Mathilda so many times the bagpipes of the relieving army are doubly welcome. Aside from the usual studio liberties, the main drawback is Robert Newton's horrible performance/role as a cowardly, drunken buffoon. Inevitably he redeems himself. It's not one of Wise's best genre pictures but it stands up against the British war films of the '50s.

Prototype juvenile delinquent/teenage rebellion picture which was imitated in low budget motorcycle gang melodramas for the next 20 years. Two rival mobs smash up a small sleepy town in rural California in an orgy of vandalism which the police can't control. It was produced by Stanley Kramer so a serious scrutiny of pack mentality might be expected.

But that's not what it is. Or at least what it looks like now. It's just a cult exploitation film which is mainly of interest for how astonishingly influential it became. This inspired a wave of mainstream counterculture; for example, the rivals of Marlon Brando's gang are called the Beetles (sic). And the clothes, and the cool motorcycles.

But the narrative is dated, and while Brando is iconic on the back of his Triumph Thunderbird, his method acting now looks of its time. The teenage anarchy is supposed to be obnoxious, but so is his surly pursuit of the local good girl (Mary Murphy) which feels creepy. Lee Marvin is more engaging as his knockabout, drunken adversary.

And both are far too old. The film might have been immediately obsolete because these kids are into jive and rock & roll came to town two years later. But it energised that generation, and its cultural impact was massive. It was banned in UK for 15 years. Now it looks like a historical artefact, but at the time it was a grassroots revolution.

Polished psychological melodrama which was overlooked at the time, but has since accumulated a critical following. Jean Simmons plays a strange little rich girl who intends to murder her stepmother (Barbara O'Neil) so she can have her father (Herbert Marshall) for herself. Robert Mitchum is the family chauffeur she entangles in her insanity.

Simmons is the standout in a really eerie performance, deepened by the ambient piano music she improvises when alone. This can be read as film noir with angel face as the femme fatale, and Mitchum as the useful dupe she means to exploit. And it's fascinating up until the point she accidentally kills her father in a car crash with his wife.

But the court case isn't plausible. The deadly, narcissistic sociopath suddenly changes. And the conclusion might as well have been written by the officials of the Production Code, after they re-watched Mitchum in Out of the Past (1947). Still, this is melodrama and improbable plot diversions are part of the deal.

Much of the attraction is the pessimistic noir mood, enhanced by Dimitri Tiomkin's plangent score. The automobile smash is well done for the period. Otto Preminger directs the slender plot with style but little suspense. It's Simmons' haunting performance as the beautiful, broken angel of death which most endures.

Heartbreaking Italian neorealism about an elderly man struggling to survive in Rome during postwar economic austerity. There is political edge as the story begins with the city's pensioners protesting to the government. Though no one is listening. When Umberto is made homeless, he can dispose of himself, but what about his beloved dog?

Vittorio Da Sica again casts non-professional actors, with Carlo Battisti unforgettable in his only screen role. He's not just a political casualty, he feels like a whole person, diminished by a loss of status and dignity; irascible, oversensitive and unable to change, yet compassionate. There is a surplus of pathos, but it's too real to be sentimental.

The tragicomic ending is overwhelming. He imposes on the kindness of a young woman (Maria Pia Casillo) who is pregnant by a disinterested soldier and there is the impression of a Darwinist society where the weak will suffer. And of Rome after WWII where a new rentier class is in possession of resources. Not so different from now.

Like all De Sica's films in this period, he implies a socialist solution, but there is no tubthumping. We witness the inexorable downfall of an old, poor, disregarded man. Like millions of others. It met with irritation from a forgetful public eager to move on, and marks the end of neorealism. But it is an enduring masterpiece.

It's obvious in the opening scene that Howard Hawks sees this as a tribute to '30s screwball comedy when Ginger Rogers wears a dress with no back, revealing her lingerie... like Katherine Hepburn in the director's 1938 landmark, Bringing Up Baby. And two of the writers (Hecht and Lederer) are legends of screwball. Though the script is the main problem.

The premise is fine. Cary Grant- Ginger's husband- is a biologist researching an elixir of youth. But one of the lab monkeys escapes and mixes one that really works, and puts it in the water cooler... and mayhem ensues. Inspiration however soon runs dry and the audience must watch Grant, the greatest ever male screen comedy actor, goof around like Lou Costello.

Which is still ok because he makes it surprisingly funny. But, what a waste. The laughs disappear when he's off screen, though Marilyn Monroe illuminates the picture as Charles Coburn's sexy secretary. This is the one where he asks her to find someone to type a letter... She was still not yet a star, but unmissably ready to go.

There's satire at the expense of postwar teenagers aimed at an older audience. And the stars reflect on the passing years, and evoke the golden age of screen comedy. But classic screwball is a romance that ends at the church; this is about the married couple facing up to middle age. For the genre, as well as their relationship, it's never as good as the first time.

Lavish Technicolor copy of the 1937 classic, which is a success, but still disappoints because it just isn't as much fun. It reuses the same script, orchestral score and even camera setups... And Stewart Granger makes a fine adventure hero as Major Rudolph Rassendyll, formerly of the British army, thrust by chance into foreign intrigue. But unluckily...

In the earlier version, Ronald Colman gives the greatest ever performance in a romantic adventure. What this has to offer is colour and opulent set design. No-one messes with the famous story. The king in-waiting of a small middle European state is kidnapped on the day of his coronation; and his distant, but identical relative steps into the royal shoes on the big day.

Granger is capable in both roles and Deborah Kerr is ideal as the demure princess. James Mason is always a superior villain. But actually, I wouldn't swap anyone for the '37 cast. There is more acrobatic action and the climactic swordfight is well staged. Oddly for a romance, all versions are subversive because the conclusion is the royals shouldn't be ruling Ruritania.

Rassendyll is the natural leader. There is a subtle shift in tone between '37 and '52 when seen in historical context. The earlier film was produced in the aftermath of the abdication crisis. So the heroes are doing their duty. But the later was made during preliminaries for a coronation. And it feels more of a celebration. Though that could be the gorgeous Technicolor.

Sleazy exploitation thriller about a psychotic serial killer who is murdering random young women in San Francisco. It's all shot on location which gives a potent impression of realism, and the character of a police psychiatrist is on hand to explain the sexual motivation of the homicidal loner. There is some editorial content which advocates more progressive policing.

The same arguments were made going back to the precode era; but no one ever wants to pay tax. And we're still there now, especially regarding violence against women. Aside from the dated psychological content, this is a really exciting manhunt with the 'Frisco police hapless in pursuit of the anonymous maniac while public panic is stirred up by the idiotic news agenda.

It's all deliriously trashy and influenced low budget thrillers for a decade. In 1952 Arthur Franz was exclusively a B actor but he is mesmeric in the title role. The supporting cast of cops are in his shadow, though Richard Kiley is engaging as the crime shrink. Marie Windsor gives the investigation some convenient glamour as a night club singer/murder victim.

It was the first Hollywood film by Edward Dmytryk following imprisonment for alleged communism, and he gives it style without slowing the action. The final tracking shot which ends in a close up of the captive killer is a knockout. There's a procedural docu-noir approach and plenty is made of its social significance, but it's just a sensational, scuzzy crime picture.

Cult heist-noir which re-entered public consciousness 40 years later when mentioned as an influence on Reservoir Dogs. The title suggests the kind of docu-noir which was going out of vogue by '52, but actually it's a tough, twisty crime thriller which reflects the postwar relaxation of censorship; the suggestion of police brutality is unexpectedly candid.

The usual first two acts of the heist film- the plan and the operation- are over in 15 minutes. This is all about the disintegration. A discredited former police chief (Preston Foster) brings together a gang of degenerate hoodlums to hold up an armoured car. Under masks- worn so they cannot identify each other- they agree to divide the swag when the heat is off.

Most of the action takes place in a Mexican tourist resort for the big payoff. John Payne plays an innocent party snagged up in the enterprise... and gradually the story gets less interesting, especially his romance with Coleen Gray. He hasn't the star quality to spice up the longueurs. But there's an incredible support cast as the crooks: Jack Elam, Lee Van Cleef and Neville Brand!

The script says Payne wins the confrontation, but they dominate the screen. The primary noir theme of greed is dominant, and Payne- the ex-marine who loses out in the postwar settlement- is a genre archetype, yet this doesn't have the pessimism of the '40s classics. It's a cute caper with an effective climax, but the slender intrigue is overextended.

Slim, lightweight murder mystery from the author (Vera Caspary) behind the classic noir, Laura (1944). This doesn't have anything like a comparable reputation and is obviously a less prestigious production, but it's the same kind of golden age puzzle embellished with luminous studio gloss. I actually prefer this; it's a slighter story but the resolution is better.

Anne Baxter is a career girl who thinks she murdered a menacing womaniser (Raymond Burr) but was so drunk she isn't sure. He spent the evening loading her with supercharged cocktails in the sort of Hollywood nightclub where Nat King Cole sings the title number. Now we would call this date rape, so it's a topical theme. But anyway, he's still dead.

She recklessly turns to a news journalist (Richard Conte) for help. Baxter in particular gives the film star power. And Fritz Lang's sophisticated noir direction makes the mystery seem much more substantial than it actually is. It's his mastery of the genre that elevates everything else. You'll guess the twist, but it hardly matters. This is curiously more-ish.

There isn't the pessimism of postwar noir. Going into the '50s economic boom, it feels like austerity is over. Baxter and her girl pals- led by Ann Sothern as the waspish she-wolf- are independent women with their own lives and a deep wardrobe. This has been lost in the shadow of Lang's other 1953 release, The Big Heat, but is still an unexpected treat for genre fans.

This is a close remake of a 1928 gangster film, but updated from prohibition to the less febrile syndicates of the postwar period. Robert Ryan is stuck in the past when deals were ratified with a machine gun. His partners want him to modernise. Robert Mitchum is the impassive, laconic police chief who intends to bring him down, by whatever means necessary.

And that includes operating outside the law. Some of his precinct stick their neck out an awful long way, but others are in the pay of the mob. This could have ended up a typically chaotic Howard Hughes production- six directors were employed!- but it's actually a rousing, brutal crime film, with car chases, explosions and gunfights which are above par for the period.

Despite its origins going back into the silents, it's not dated and is among the best of the second wave of gangster pictures which ran through the '50s. It's not as good as The Big Heat (1953) but it is that sort of film, with the impression that crime is now a semi-legitimate business enterprise which has corrupted law and order and politics. So a long way from Little Caesar.

The two stars are well matched and William Talman a standout as a reckless ex-Marine who will pay any price to eliminate the mob. Though Lizabeth Scott is wasted in a nothing role as a nightclub singer. With the Production Code still in operation there is some '30s style moralising to offset the violence. Yet its portrayal of the cops as just another gang, is way ahead of its time.

This violent gangster-noir is dominated by Broderick Crawford as a tough cop who goes undercover among New York longshoremen to investigate criminal activity- including murder- by the union. This is three years before On the Waterfront. So HUAC would appreciate its politics, even if it does feature a corrupt policemen.

The plot is driven by the search to expose the gang boss. Which will come as a surprise, and the jeopardy of the special agent makes this a potent thriller. The clunky wisecracks which Crawford has to constantly spit out are a weakness, but his aggressive, kinetic performance supplies the film's energy.

He created variations on this character for the rest of the decade. There are familiar faces in minor roles. Charles Bronson is an uncredited dockworker and Ernest Borgnine a supercilious heavy. Best of all, Neville Brand re-runs his schtick as the sneering, sadistic goon. Somehow he gets better dialogue than anyone else.

There is expressionism and the action is melodramatic, but it's the look of grainy realism which impresses. This is a dirty waterfront of desperate men. The female roles are peripheral. Once the postwar vogue for classic noir began to fade, the gangster picture returned. Though this isn't well known, it's among the more successful.